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The LCD of sex education has produced a generation of 13th and 14th grade college students. These millennial boys and girls (sic) bring their high school sex education lessons gleaned from the least responsible source possible to college. Long immersion in the internet view of adult mores has resulted in very confused young women and totally clueless young men. They sought patterns to grownup life by people watching as is quite normal but forgot that in porn the people are actors; directed and scripted. When subscribing to porn for information and guidance they were not informed that porn is based on the credo that nobody ever says NO to sex. Hence we have harassed RAs in the dorms and security all over the place. The most common night light on campus is the blue ‘ help me’ light on every corner with security phone at the ready. Porn is porn but the false message presented has guided youthful eroticism to LCD: the Lowest Common Denominator.

Millennials have only the Boomers to thank for the government blessed presence of super dope. The stoners from the sixties are turning on the entire country, state by state. With super dope “One toke over the line” should now read ‘one toke is the line’. The good old days of passing around a joint is an express ticket to boboland now. Gone is the slow growing buzz that went on and on until everybody was nodding out and the party began to drag. The reason beer drinking is popular is the social factor. It takes a while to get ripped and there is comraderie throughout the process. Perhaps the liquor industry will get onboard with 200 proof vodka which will cause coma with the first shot. Sending an entire country to boboland is a dubious enterprise and reeks of the Lowest Comm… hey,man. What was I saying? This shit is killer!

In Manhattan the elevator in the Brill Building, home of Tin Pan Alley, went down to the lowest level and several guys came out. They were bottom feeders in the business of popular music. These were minor characters in the Hit Parade era when truly gifted lyricists, Cole Porter, Hoagy Carmichael, George Gershwin, the best of the best, created the music America became famous for worldwide. But now these marginal guys had a plan. The numbers were looking good. The post war babies, we now call Boomers, were just reaching puberty. Time for action. Find the Lowest Common Denominator then blitz the kiddies with “Bubble Gum” music to get them listening and buying vinyl. Next year we’ll elvis them and get them shaking their little booties. After that we’ll stone them and keep them rocking and own them for ourselves. Forget about music for the rest of the country, that’s over. Kids got bucks now and there are soo many of them.

This continued though the 50s, 60s and into the 70s until, gasp: DISCO, ruined the party and everybody went home, got a job, had kids. Their hard won music empire died a quick death. Enter the new Lowest Common Denominator, punk , funk, rap and hip hop.

We have had mostly males in the world’s commissaries (read: everywhere important) as executive chefs for generations and their record is pretty spotty. Granted they’ve come up with a few tasty dishes; penicillin comes to mind and tap water on demand, yes, and fertilizer, that’s pretty good and some of the desserts and treats are okay but the ‘ ptomaine poisoning’ count is pretty high and people are dying like flies. So maybe it’s time to equally share the commissaries with others who have different instincts when it comes to ‘kitchen’ management. Others who are less likely to prepare and serve dishes that are toxic.

Now the first thing we must insist upon is you chefs give up the one thing all executives prize more than anything else: the recipe. You might reluctantly share the ‘kitchen’ under duress or when feeling magnanimous, but to give up the recipes: never! The recipe, along with the strong right arm and symbolic toque high hat has made the male executive chef the commissar, worldwide. Until now.

No more ‘ptomaine’; too many have died from your lethal preparations. No more ‘kitchen’ slops out the back door into the creek. The creek has carried all that careless glop to the river; then to the ocean. The ocean’s a mess and the fish are ending up in mykitchen with big sores all over. And fix those exhaust fans; they’re stinking up the place.

Just so you male executive chefs understand clearly you will share the space equally from now on. Plus you will share the recipes with your new peers. Come in commissarinas and meet your new partners. Here is a copy of the current recipes for each of you to vet and hopefully alter. And here’s a sparkling new chef’s toque hat. Congratulations. Now all of you, get to work. The place is a mess.

Things are crawling out of the woodwork. Things are emerging from weird places where I didn’t even know we had woodwork. This election cycle for no intended reason has become an accidental fumigator of creepy crawlies. It has by no means killed those strange woodwork dwellers but it has certainly flushed them out. It has also started a sort of political trench warfare between the two principal creeper nests. Perhaps exposure to the bright light of day will stunt their growth. That in itself would make up for all the toxicity their unheralded appearance has released.

We’ve known of the existence of the so called ‘deep state’ but now, at last, we realize how shallow it really is. It is mainly the province of posturing civil servants and turgid militias, using every macho dodge to hide the fearful atmosphere they dwell in. Bluster and cant, with the occasional wet work to justify the longed for perks and pensions, seems to prevail. It resembles a malignant mushroom colony; all gnarled roots, coddled and rarified earth and the occasional toadstool popping above ground to look for apostasy; maybe treason.

What a sorry place we’ve come to as a country. To avoid living within our means, which includes suffering the occasional financial depression, we have mortgaged our integrity to create a constant supply of mortal enemies against which we have kept our economy on a decades long war footing. Now as a crippled imperialist we continue to lurch about the world using borrowed money. We fool no one save ourselves. How good we have become at self deception is the sad message heard today as a cacophony of whining and frenzy fills the airways. Any sober voice is lost to ten thousand supplicants pleading for comfort and succor.

They would be laughable, maybe not laughable but at least worth a snicker, if thousands did not suffer and die because of our angst and hubris. The next few years will test our ability to undo the damage we have inflicted as a nation. It’s time to dump out the Kool-aid and change the program.